


On The Hills Outside of Venice, 1536

by Tandirra



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Historical References, M/M, Macarons, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tandirra/pseuds/Tandirra
Summary: Aziraphale has come to Italy for a very important reason. He spent longer than he'd intended to on that mission, but at least he was enjoying it. At least, he thought so, until Crowley arrived on the other side of the garden wall.





	On The Hills Outside of Venice, 1536

It had taken all of two years to locate his target and another one to infiltrate it. Of course, it wouldn’t have taken him nearly so long were it not for a particularly suspicious Abbot by the name of Bastiano. But he’d come to the monastery for a divine purpose and no man, even one ordained under Her, could stop an angel with a purpose.

Admittedly the divine purpose came from _himself_ and not Head Office, but Aziraphale reckoned he was holy enough to bestow divinity to whatever purpose he should so choose.

And, were High Office to question why he’d decided to spend the better part of a year amongst holy men in the hills outside of Venice, well, that was a self explanatory question. What better way to judge the holiness of men than through those dedicated to a life of it? They’d eat the line up. Other than the rather unfashionable and itchy robes it was altogether a fairly pleasant experience. Sometimes it was nice to get away from cities and the views were often breathtaking.

Though his company could have been better. He’d thought he’d rather get along with the monks. After all, they were generally on the same side. And he assumed they would, at least in some part, be there for the same reason he was. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. They were just monks. Monks with some significant trust issues but monks all the same. Aziraphale understood such worship but couldn’t stand their strictness. It was much too Heaven on Earth for him.

Which, of course, was the goal. Some part of him knew he should be proud of the humans for accomplishing all on their own.

But it was so unbearably _dull_. And not to mention tedious.

As were Abbot Bastiano’s daily calls to congregate. He was a man composed entirely of suspicion, were even the wind to whistle one wrong note he would assume the devil himself was coming to collect. And, while Aziraphale understood wanting to protect the secrets of the monastery, he couldn’t stand for such undue paranoia. He thought it was rather unlikely any great evil would come roaring out of the Earth in search of one single fairly small monastery outside of Venice which had nothing of any value to Hellish forces outside of one old blessed iron cage and a few glorified, crucifix ended fire pokers from the rougher days of the Inquisition.

Still, he was here on an important mission so he bore the speeches and suspicion with grace.

“There’s been word of strange travelers passing through the area.” Was the general topic of the day. And everyday. Aziraphale didn’t try to explain that there were always strange folk travelling to Venice and there likely always would be; he’d tried before with no success. “So be on your guard! One will never know the day evil will first pounce upon you!” Abbot Bastiano spoke with the fervor of a man possessed by his own righteousness. None of the other monks seemed to share Aziraphale’s hesitancy, they seemed to know no better than to be whipped into such an unnecessary frenzy. “Hold true to your vows and evil shall not conquer you!”

Aziraphale tuned the man out, he’d heard more than enough. After some thoughtful consideration he managed to edge slowly enough through the Brothers to slip out into the gardens without turning too many heads.

Outside the day looked to be far more agreeable. It was pleasantly warm, a fine summer as summers went. Insects buzzed in the bushes and the breeze tickled the hair at the back of his neck. All of these sensations were entirely unique to Earth and there was nothing in heaven that could compare, there was no such disorganized beauty to speak of, there was no allowance for accidents and in turn no time for even pleasant accidents; in Heaven everything was perfect and as it should be and, honestly, boring.

A rather fat bee buzzed around rows of lavender, bumping clumsily into the flowers. Aziraphale stopped to watch.

That was one thing he truly enjoyed about this mission. The time left totally unstructured. Time he could spend simply enjoying this world and all its glories, of which there were many. Sure, some he lacked, after all the monks lived a very strict lifestyle so it wasn’t as if he could indulge in some of his usual weaknesses, but the sacrifices were surely worth what he would gain in return.

He moved on from the fumbling bee, travelling further into the monastery's vast gardens. The day was winding to its close and while the sky was blue for now the sparse clouds had begun to take on a dark hint. A storm was gathering in the hills. It would roll over them soon enough. 

Most of the trees near the monastery were shrubby pines that made for poor shade, but Aziraphale had found his favorite, a slightly withered but well shaped old cork oak just on the edge of the low stone fence that separates the monastery from the world beyond, and it was there he found himself. From the grass beneath this tree he could see quite a bit of the city, though from this distance it many of the homes resembled little more than children’s wooden toys. He wondered, and did so briefly because such a wondering invited terrible hubris for an angel, if this were what God saw when She peered down on Her Earth.

It was a rather short man by the name of Brother Federigo that interrupted his silent meditation as the monk appeared from within the garden, looking rather harried. He started when he saw Aziraphale sitting beneath the oak. “I- Brother!” He nodded a quick greeting and Aziraphale nodded back. “Have you- I could have sworn I saw a figure stalking our perimeter, maybe staking out the place! I thought the fiend ran this way so I took chase. You haven’t- haven’t seen anything, have you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Aziraphale smiled, though it was the kind of smile that usually got humans to leave him alone, full friendliness but lacking all conviction, a liar’s smile as Crowley had once described it; which Aziraphale had made him take back. He wasn’t a liar he just happened to have to lie sometimes, it wasn’t like he enjoyed it. “Have you perhaps tried by the fountains?”

Brother Federigo did appear properly repelled by his smile, though he hesitated, still too wrapped up in his own fantasy of danger to really recognize the urgency the social cue. “But what about the hedgerows? Any monster could sneak in easily—”

The rustling of a few bushes just beyond the monastery’s stone border elicited an “aha!” from the man as he hopped over the low fence and dove into the bushes. This exclamation of triumph was immediately followed by a howl of fear.

Mostly to make sure the man hadn’t impaled himself on thorns, Aziraphale stood up, dusted himself off, and came to look. He watched as Brother Federigo wrenched himself from the thorny bush and spun to look at him with a look of truly biblical horror. “There’s- there’s—” His own gulping cut whatever revelation he was currently having quite short.

Aziraphale thought he was milking the problem rather too much. Whatever it was it couldn’t truly be that much of an issue. He peered into the bushes where the man had thrust himself through the bushes. Under a flat rock he saw the distinct blunt head of a snake. He struggled for a moment to remember what venomous snakes could possibly live in this part of the world. “Oh, Brother, it’s just a —” But the snake turned his head and Aziraphale recognized those eyes. He stuttered. “It’s just- just a snake. That’s all. Yes, a _normal,_ very regular, perfectly harmless snake. ” He was sure to give the snake a rather stern look before he returned to facing Brother Federigo, who had calmed down slightly but was still shaking dramatically.

“Yes! A tempter, here to corrupt us from within!”

“No.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “He- _it_ is not here to do that. It is just a snake.” Though he couldn’t actually know the snake’s reason for lurking until he asked. “One of God’s creatures?” He reminded helpfully, fully aware this particular snake was as much one of God’s creatures as he was an aardvark.

“But the snake—”

“Yes, Brother, I _know._ But there’s no need to fear something that's not even as long as your arm. It’s not like it’s going to swallow you whole.” 

Under Aziraphale’s firm reasoning Brother Frederigo began to unwind his paranoia. “You’re sure it’s not dangerous?” He peered past Aziraphale into the bush again. “What if it gets into the chickens? We should at least remove it.”

At least the monk had some sense about him. “Yes! That’s a _very_ good idea.” To his relief the man didn’t immediately jump to the opportunity. “I could do it.” Aziraphale offered after a short and nervous silence.

Brother Frederigo broke into boundless gratitude. “Oh. Oh, thank you.” Which was succinctly followed by the need to make a hasty exit to avoid actually having to see the snake. “I should- I still need to check the hedgerows. Good- good luck.”

“Thank you, Brother, I’ll most certainly need it.” He didn’t think the monk much understood his sarcasm, especially when he delivered it with a smile. A smile he immediately switched for a stern scowl as he rounded on Crowley, still solidly a snake, when the man vanished into the garden. _“What_ do you think you’re doing out here?”

“What doess it look like?” Crowley hissed sourly back. Upon returning to his human form Crowley absolutely shredded the bush he’d been hiding within. He looked rather embarrassed to have been caught, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. It didn’t seem very demonic, hiding in a bush cowering from a neurotic monk. “Looking for you!” He accused. “What did you think? Oh, I’m just going to take a stroll out to an Italian monastery. Nevermind the fact that I’m a _demon._ That sounds like a nice Saturday. Huh?”

“You don’t need to be so snappy, seeing how I just saved you.”

Crowley brushed it off. His tinted glass slipped down his nose and his yellow eyes glinted in the dying light. “I had to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourself mixed up in anything nasty.”

His concern was quite flattering. No angel had so much as wished him good luck when he’d sent his mission to Head Office, let alone thought check in on him. “Oh, no, my dear, I’m just fine. This is right where I want to be.” He smiled and this one held no threat. But Crowley didn’t relax, in fact he gained a certain downtrodden air about him. “What is it?”

Crowley tried to lean casually against the monastery fence only to jump off of it as if his arm had touched hot coals. He took to kicking at the dust and dirt, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eye. “Are you mad at me?”

That question took Aziraphale off guard. Where could he have possibly gotten that conclusion? “I beg your pardon?”

The grimace that Crowley threw at the monastery was full of thousands of years worth of resentment. “Hiding in the mountains in a holy place? You sent me that letter saying you would be in Italy for a while and were busy with something and then you just… vanished? _And then_ when I track down where you are you’re here? Hanging around on _blessed_ dirt.” Crowley fixed him with an accusatory stare. “You’re mad at me for something.”

“I- You really. Really?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I’m not! Why would you even think that?”

“Living in a monastery? It seems a bit petty, even for you.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Crowley.”

Which appeared to be both a bit of a blow and a relief to the demon, who seemed conflicted. “But you couldn’t have sent a letter? Maybe with a little boy in a funny hat to sing it to me. Anything to let me know you hadn’t gotten yourself into some sort of trouble. Again.” He added pointedly.

“I am an _angel_ I don’t believe I need a chaperone.”

“A _chaperone?_ I’d be- it’d be more like a- a bodyguard, or something.”

“Well, I don’t need one of those either.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley shrugged. _“Of course_ you don’t.” He smiled like a snake and his tone made Aziraphale flush. 

“I’m going to ignore that.” Aziraphale sniffed and stepped over the fence back into the garden.

“Course you are.” Crowley strayed closer to the fence but still kept his hands firmly to himself. He eyed the wooden posts with some apprehension. Though he seemed to realize he was losing ground on Aziraphale. “Wait up. I actually do have a proposition to make. Since you’re in the area.”

“A prop-” Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley, I’m busy. I don’t always have time for the Arrangement, you know.”

Crowley nodded but pushed on. “It would only take a few days. Listen, it’s just a tempting. Easy stuff.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Location.” Which, as an explanation, simply didn’t cut it. When Aziraphale crossed his arms Crowley hastily leapt to explain. “It’s near the Vatican, okay? I don’t like heading down there. It smells bad. Just getting near the place makes me itchy all over. It’s like poison ivy to the soul.”

Which Aziraphale knew was true. Crowley typically avoided the area like the plague, he’d turned down Aziraphale’s Arrangement offers before because they were simply too close to the city. “So you want me to do it?”

Crowley grinned. “Uh. Yeah. I was hoping. I’ll owe you.”

He wilted slightly under Aziraphale’s glower. “You ignored my explicit request to be left alone to come ask me for a favor? I thought better of you.”

For a moment Crowley matched his glare. “You shouldn’t’ve,” He growled. But Aziraphale kept the scowl until Crowley crumbled. “No, no it wasn’t. I was mostly checking on you. But, you know,” he tried a weak smile “since you’re in the area…”

“No. I’m not doing that for you. I have an important task here.”

Noticing his vagueness, Crowley lost his simpering look. “And that is? You haven’t told me.” And when Aziraphale shuffled his feet, Crowley pushed. “Come on, I traveled all the way here. You might as well spill it.”

“I didn’t ask you to, though.” Crowley didn’t take his rebuttal well, squinting suspiciously at him. Aziraphale grew defensive and, though he hoped he didn’t show it, slightly embarrassed. He could guess how the demon would react to the truth. “You wouldn’t understand. I—”

The bells of the monastery rang for their nightly meal and saved Aziraphale an answer. “Ah. Would you listen to that. I’ve got to go they’ll come looking for me if I don’t.”

Crowley scowled at him. “You’re kidding.” But he was already inching away, farther into the garden. “Wait!” Crowley grabbed at the stone as if to lean over it but cursed and reeled back, nursing his palm. “Don’t walk out on me, angel!”

“Well, I’ve got to!”

The demon ignored him, glancing back at the city down the hill. “I- hm.” He fixed Aziraphale with a stare and a menacing pointed figure. “Here, tomorrow. Same time.”

“I- this is a monastery! You can’t just- you’re not supposed to _be here_.” The bells were droning on and on. Ringing for him. 

Crowley was already walking away, though he turned on his heel and began to walk backwards so he could fix Aziraphale with one last eye roll. “Angel, does it look like I care? I’ll be here.” He spun around and stalked down the hills.

“Maybe I won’t be!” But he would. He really didn’t want to stand the demon up. 

If Crowley heard his threat he didn’t show it or stop. Aziraphale couldn’t ignore the bells any longer and so turned his back on the demon and hurried inside.

As expected he faced questioning about his tardiness. But his excuses came easy, after all, he’d been meeting with Crowley for thousands of years at this point and it was far easier to lie to humans than it was to do the same to angels.

He more or less drifted through his duties the next day. He couldn’t help himself, he hadn’t truly realized how starved of good company he’d been until Crowley appeared on the other side of that fence. And, yes, while Crowley was a demon, he wasn’t a _complete_ savage, he had his good moments. They were actually many and varied. More so than his bad these days. Sometimes, they were moments with actual _goodness_ in them. Not that he could actually tell Crowley that without some harsh recompense.

“Brother.” It was Abbot Bastiano.

His sudden appearance over Aziraphale’s left shoulder nearly caused Aziraphale to drop the basket he’d been tasked to fill. Among the rows of trees heavy laden with delicate pink and white flowers and little green hulls the Abbot’s robes caught a trail of dirt. His critical eye would have pierced any human.

Luckily, Aziraphale was nothing of the sort. Fumbling with his wicker basket, Aziraphale reached up and swiftly plucked a branch free of the precious hulls, which tumbled into his basket. 

Abbot Bastiano nodded with begrudging approval and moved on.

Rather annoyed, Aziraphale watched him go. He simply wasn’t cut out for this kind of slavish devotion. At least as long as Earth separated him from Heaven he didn’t have to worry about any of his superiors spying over his shoulder.

But it was for his mission. That which kept him here. And he was so close.

Though it didn’t seem so as he took a step back to look at just how many trees he’d yet to strip of their bounty. The task was likely to inspire some patience or humility, that, he thought, sounded about right. Or at least that would be an excellent excuse if someone asked why they needed to spend all day in the fields when they already had enough of the hulls back at the monastery.

His fellow Brothers later commented on how it must’ve taken a miracle for him to finish the chore so quickly.

Had they noticed perhaps they would have also commented on how miraculously clean he had just become despite the day spent working outside under the hot sun. He would have preferred a nice- non miracled up bath but much to his chagrin the monastery didn’t have amenities quite up to the standard he held.

The sun was setting once again and the clouds that had been gathering throughout the day were cut only by rare streaks of gold. A stiff wind blew through Aziraphale’s curls as he stood beneath the cork tree, waiting on high alert for both the demon and for any spying monks.

When he first spotted Crowley walking up the hills he relaxed. Though it didn’t last for soon he saw how the sparse, golden sun caught in Crowley’s hair, giving it a certain glow as if it were aflame. His eyes, too, seemed to match if not outpace the sun, practically luminous in the fading light.

The sight would have been rather distracting if it weren’t for the deep scowl etched across Crowley’s face. 

As it was Aziraphale straightened up and clasp his hands in front of him, feeling slightly flustered that Crowley had clearly found out what it was he was doing here from someone other than him. Crowley looked, as Aziraphale had expected, _slightly_ displeased by his reasoning. 

Soon as he was within earshot, Crowley shouted “You’re here for-”

“Don’t yell!” Aziraphale called back, just as loud but with the air of a whisper. “They’ll-” Crowley moved with inhuman speed up the embankment and now he stood just beyond the fence wearing a nasty look. “...Hear you.” Aziraphale finished. He clenched his fists at his side and raised his chin, waiting for the attack.

Crowley leaned across the fence, careful not to touch it, and stared Aziraphale down. “You traveled all the way to an Italian monastery for some _sweets.”_ It was a statement. He already knew the truth.

Aziraphale raised his chin, though he knew he was flushed. When the demon said it like that it sounded unreasonable. But it most certainly wasn’t. “It’s not just ‘some sweets,’ it’s a delicacy-”

“Yes or no.” Crowley glowered. “Did you drop everything and run to the Italian countryside for some fancy dessert?”

“They're called macarons. I heard about them from the French! Apparently Queen Catherine brought them over there but here they’re unique to this region! And they’re very good. It’s something new- they can’t just keep it to themselves!” Aziraphale protested, saying yes without actually doing so. He spoke over Crowley’s exaggerated groan. “I’m just trying to learn the recipe, that’s all! Then I’ll leave and spread the recipe so I won’t have to travel so far next time.” He frowned at his grumbling friend. “You should try one, they make them with ground almonds, it’s very clever. They’re good!”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ they are.” Crowley shook his head and looked up at the stone monastery. “You don’t belong here.” The statement was almost a slap to the face, but Crowley spoke on as if he’d said nothing of note. “I highly doubt that joining religion for sweets is really what they’re all about here. Or what- you know- She intended.”

“She hasn’t mentioned it.” Aziraphale rebutted. Which was true, but really She hardly mentioned anything. Nowadays she wasn’t much for personally interfering on Earth and, quite honestly, Aziraphale preferred it that way. In the early days She’d been a little too in favor of the odd holy smiting for his taste.

“No doubt.” And Crowley’s scowl deepend.

Aziraphale look cordially to his feet. She wasn’t someone they often spoke of. As a topic She was far too contentious. He supposed Crowley hadn’t really gotten over the whole ‘falling’ incident yet.

“Er- anyway.” He cleared his throat. He looked back to the demon, who still wore a dark look. “How was the city?”

Crowley gave him a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Oh, very exciting. Met some fine folks, drank some damn good wine, talked to a few visionaries in the making. They’ll surely be on my side in the end, but you’d like them, they’re clever- it’s the 16th century after all, times are changing. Of course, you’d know that if you hadn’t spent the last few years on the hunt for some biscuits.”

He did make a tempting case. “Once I get what I need I’ll be sure to come see.”

 _“Or_ you could just steal a tin of biscuits and get out of here. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be as fun.”

“Oh, come on!” Crowley protest, coming very close to falling over the stone barrier between them. “This can't be fun. You’re not _that_ boring.”

“Thank you, I’m very flattered.” Aziraphale responded dryly. He glanced pointedly back towards the garden.

Which achieved the effect he’d hoped for, as Crowley hastily said. “Angel, don’t.” And pressed against the stone fence. He backed off as the stone sizzled but sounded no less insistent when he said “Don’t walk away from me.” Somewhere in there was an unspoken _‘please.’_

One Aziraphale couldn’t deny. “I wasn’t going to.” It was his turn to lean across the fence and he put both hands on it, free of the fear of burning that threatened Crowley. “So now you know why I’m here. And no, I’m not leaving yet. Once they trust me with the recipe, though, I’ll leave.” He hesitated. “Maybe, maybe then we could… get lunch, or something like that.” They’d done it a thousand times before but each time some part of him expected rejection. 

“Why later? Why not go now? Or tomorrow?” Crowley questioned, giving him quite the opposite. He breathed a sigh of relief as Crowley continued on. “Let’s get lunch tomorrow! I mean, I’m in the area, so we might as well. There’s a place you’d love. Right on the water. Good wine. Great food.” The idea brought some life into the demon, who had otherwise held a stubborn sulk. 

It hurt more than Aziraphale could have admitted to shake his head. “I can’t. We can’t leave the monastery for- for frivolous activities.” He swallowed and steeled himself. “Or to mingle with the common folk.”

“Angel, they can’t keep you anywh- _‘The common folk?’”_ The instant disgust twisted Crowley’s mouth into a thin line. “Really? Is that what I am?”

“Not to me! But, but to them-”

“Oh, _to them!”_ Crowley laughed and there was a cruel, frustrated edge to it. “They’ve got nothing over you. They’re no threat at all. If they caught you going out you could just make them forget that. Or you could just make them give you the damn recipe. Just snap your fingers and.” He snapped his for emphasis. “Voila! You know how to make your little almond biscuits and can return home triumphant.”

“That’s not right!” And he was an angel so he thought he quite knew what the right thing was. But his convictions were weakening. He wanted to go about things the proper way, the human way, but the more he argued with Crowley the more he realized he really did miss a proper day out. And good clothes. And gourmet meals not cooked by a man with frankly terrible personal hygiene.

He knew Crowley could see him fracturing, as the demon’s smile grew. “Come on. Get some new scenery. Don’t these people bore you?”

Bore was an understatement. “Yes, immensely.” He agreed. “None of them are exactly intellectuals. There’s not even one good reading of the Bible among them, which is the very minimum of what I expect from holy men. They’re excellent bakers but terrible company. If it’s not the biscuits or the text its their suspicion of outsiders.”

“See? Doesn’t it feel good to get that off your chest?” Crowley spread his hands out wide, palms up.

“Well, yes.” But the bells sounded moments later and everything that had been said between them came crashing down. Aziraphale withdrew. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

Clearly irritated, Crowley practically growled. “You’re a pain in my-” But he reined himself in. “Tomorrow, midday. I’ll be here. You want to get away for a bit? We can pop down to the city. If you don’t… Don’t come. Then I’ll leave you alone and you can get back to your sweets.” With a last challenging look Crowley pushed up his tinted glasses and immediately vanished into the night in an entirely unnecessarily and dramatic fashion.

Aziraphale would have found it ridiculous and maybe a bit endearing had he not been wracked by indecision.

Had he been less consumed he might have noticed how the other Brothers stared at him or how their mutterings stopped when he entered any room that night. Or the extra pinch of salt in his nightly meal. Under other circumstances he certainly would have noticed the added crucifix hanging above his bed. 

But as was, the only thing that roused him out of thought that evening was the sound of the storm finally rolling over them sometime late into the night as thunder rumbled the stone structure and rain pounded down upon the gardens and fields of almond trees.

It was still raining when he awoke again in the morning.

With a night of thought behind him Aziraphale’s decision solidified. He could risk it. He could get out and slip back in without any lasting damage. It couldn’t hurt to get away, in fact it might make him better appreciate the monastery.

At least, so he’d convinced himself.

After breakfast that the Brothers were called to gather, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. Annoyance turned to dismay as soon as Abbot Bastiano began to speak. “Today, Brothers, is a fine day for gardening.”

“But- but it’s raining.” Aziraphale protested, dreaming up the full horrors that mud could wreak upon him. No amount of miracles could rid him of the memory.

Abbot Bastiano just tutted and displayed a wide smile. “Yes! And the soil is at its most pliant. There’s no better time.” When Aziraphale didn’t immediately agree the Abbot stepped down from his perch and stalked to stand before him, trying to tower over him. He had a bit of Gabriel in him, Aziraphale had to admit.

But Gabriel was an Archangel and this monk was just a man. Still, to keep up appearances he dipped his head. Arguing would get him nowhere, he knew that. “You’re right. Silly me.” Though Abbot Bastiano didn’t back off, instead he peered deep into Aziraphale’s eyes as if searching for something.

Aziraphale kept his vapid smile, though leaned away to make up the distance to avoid catching a whiff of the man’s breath.

Finally the Abbot backed off and gave him a small nod. “Good. You’ll be picking weeds, Brother. It’s a good reminder of what must be done to those who are not welcome in God’s garden.”

“Ah.” Was all Aziraphale could manage. 

The mud was, as he’d expected, hellish. Or as close to hellish as sanctified ground could be. And weeding really wasn’t his scene. He simply didn’t have the heart for it. The little things hadn’t done anything wrong, per say, they were just growing as plants were meant to. And sometimes their flowers were more beautiful than those of plants that weren’t weeds.

Most of the time he spent ‘weeding’ involved him sitting delicately in the driest spot he could find and trying to coax the damp little weeds back to cut back their growth a little bit so they wouldn’t be noticed. It usually worked. When it didn’t he gave the rebellious plants a harsh ultimatum that frightened the poor things into compliance. But it was better than actually killing them. And he always apologized.

The other Brothers moved around him, sloshing through mud holding shovels and spades splattered with dirt. They mostly ignored him, though he began to notice that he had a shadow on his tail who followed him wherever he went.

Which didn’t worry him. It wasn’t that hard to trick humans into looking the wrong way at the right time.

He worked his way towards the cork tree as the morning passed and his shadow followed. It was nearly time now and, though he dreaded Crowley’s inevitable comments on his muddy robes, he was excited. He sheltered beneath the cork tree, taking refuge from the misty rain, and spied back on his shadow who was currently hiding behind one of the pine trees under the pretense of pruning it.

When he saw a figure trekking up the hill under the shade of a batlike, black umbrella, he snapped his fingers and the pine his shadow had been hiding behind suddenly trembled and sprouted with exuberance. He heard a yelp from his shadow and smiled with some self satisfaction.

Upon climbing over the fence he tried to fix his plastered hair with his hands. Much as he was anticipating miracling himself some fine new clothes on the stroll to Venice he’d rather Crowley not see him looking like a wet dog in the present. He knew the demon wouldn’t let it go.

Indeed, Crowley’s grin as he came upon the angel was wide, smug, and amused. “A little damp, are we?” The demon was both clean and dry, there was not a smudge of mud upon his black boots despite how far he’d walked and his massive umbrella kept the rest of him immaculate.

“You look nice.” Aziraphale said rather resentfully. 

Crowley soaked in the praise. “I know.” His eyes gleamed gleefully when Aziraphale shot him a glare. For the first time since Aziraphale had seen him on the other side of the fence Crowley seemed genuinely cheerful. He offered space beneath his umbrella. “Shall we, then?”

Aziraphale stepped gratefully beneath the safety of the umbrella and thought briefly of taking Crowley’s outstretched arm. He imagined his arm would slot perfectly into Crowley’s own. As if it had always been meant to be there. But he noticed Crowley intently watching him and his fantasy wilted. He let his arm fall limply to his side. “Yes, let’s.” He cleared his throat.

The squelching of boots and a hasty “Not so fast!” Sloshing rather slowly from within the garden appeared Brother Alessio holding a large pair of pruning shears. 

Crowley groaned and straightened his glasses. “Deal with this, angel. Or I will.”

The threat was lost on the Brother, who pointed the shears at the pair of them. “You! You’re that man I saw lurking!”

Stepping in front of Crowley’s sharp toothed grin, Aziraphale hastily conjured up an excuse. “Brother, no! No, you’re mistaken. He’s just passing through and was asking me for some refuge from the rain.” Though soon as the words left his mouth he winced. Even if the monks did believe that it wasn’t like Crowley could actually come inside. He couldn’t even walk on the grounds without giving himself away.

Fully aware of the flaw in his excuse, Crowley barked a short laugh. “Yeah, sure.” He made no effort to conceal the depth of his irritation even when the Brother’s attention turned his way. “But obviously you lot are busy, so I could just go. Venice isn’t that far, after all.” Much to Aziraphale’s relief he wasn’t acting entirely antagonistic towards the monk. Though his patience was obviously running thinner by the second.

The Brother only held his frown, a discouraging sign that made Aziraphale’s stomach sink. “Well, _stranger,”_ he said the word like a curse which Aziraphale found entirely unchristian, “if you’re really looking for a place to wait out the rain… I suppose we could make amenities available.”

Aziraphale grimaced in Crowley’s direction. This really going as planned. He’d fully expected the Brother to flat out deny shelter. They never let anyone else in. It was as if they were purposefully antagonizing him.

And Alessio kept talking, attempting to usher Crowley over. “Come, we can let you in.” He still hadn’t put down his shears.

“Really,” Crowley said, not taking a single step forward. “I’m fine. I think your Brother here misinterpreted me.”

“No, I insist.” He was smiling now, though it didn’t seem very welcoming. 

Aziraphale, feeling rather stuck in the middle of the two, saw Crowley roll his eyes and drop all courteous pretense. He fully ignored the Brother. “Okay, angel. If you need my help just ask.” Whatever he was planning he was clearly itching to do it.

Wringing his hands, Aziraphale glanced between the demon and the Brother. This was going terribly. “Please, wait.”

As if it could get worse from along the path appeared two more Brothers, Cristolfe and Marin, big Frenchmen that he’d thought he’d rather connected with. Both of them held mud splattered shovels. They didn’t seem terribly surprised by the scene which left Aziraphale with a sinking feeling.

They were being outnumbered. “Before we do anything drastic,” he tried again, “this really does not have to be difficult.” All eyes were on him now. “Brother Alessio, I apologize for lying to you. I do know this fellow he’s a- um- an acquaintance of mine.” Aziraphale noticed Crowley twitch but ignored it. “He was just in the area, I stepped across the fence to speak with him. I lied to you to try and weasel out of trouble. We can talk to the abbot about this but we don’t need to involve him. He’s done nothing wrong and he’d like to move on with his day.”

“Even if that were true,” Brother Alessio contradicted, wielding his shears rather erratically, “I saw him the other night. Which means you’ve been seeing him.”

“I’ve not been-” Aziraphale fumbled and glanced weakly back at Crowley, who was watching him expectantly. “It’s just- listen, I, uh. We—”

“He’s been bewitched!” It was Brother Cristolfe, who turned fervently to Brother Alessio. “You were right.” 

“You’ve been talking about me behind my back?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt.

Brother Cristolfe smiled at him as one would smile at a child, which sent a thrill of instant irritation through Aziraphale, who hadn’t lived on this Earth for nearly six thousand years to be patronized by a Frenchman who couldn’t even write. “It’s alright, Brother. This witch has caught you in a spell. We can help.”

The idea was preposterous and Aziraphale scoffed accordingly. “He’s not a witch!”

Even Crowley joined in, stepping forward now. “If I were neither of us would be here, I can tell you that.”

“You’re not helping.” Aziraphale shot.

“Angel.” Crowley smiled grimly. “This isn’t going to end well. These men have clearly made up their minds, haven’t you all?” He turned on the Brothers now, and, slicked by the rain, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. The men recoiled as he hastily pushed them back to their place.

Brother Alessio dropped his shears and fumbled for the holy crucifix he wore around his neck. He held it towards Crowley in one trembling hand. “You- you’re not a witch.”

Crowley paused. “Not in the slightest.” When he turned his back on them for Aziraphale he offered an apologetic grimace. “Last chance to get your recipe.”

Aziraphale had made his choice already. He had made it long before this. “No, it’s fine—”

More squelching announced the arrival of Abbot Bastiano and another Brother. This time the men were on their side of the fence. Aziraphale liked that even less but at least all they were carrying were tiny metal spades.. “We cannot allow you to take our Brother, fiend.”

“How many of them are there? It’s like cockroaches.” Crowley complained under his breath.

Aziraphale made to approach the Abbot. Not that he thought he’d make much progress convincing the man. He at least needed to try. “Abbot, please, if you just listen to me I’m sure we can sort this all out.”

“I’ve had enough of this.” Crowley said.

Abbot Bastiano nodded seriously and looked beyond Aziraphale. “I have as well. Brothers.”

There was a lot of shuffling and a “what?” from Crowley before a loud _clunk_ rang out above the rain. Aziraphale turned in time to watch in shock as the demon crumpled to the ground. Brother Marin stood above him, holding the shovel he’d clearly just heft squarely at Crowley’s head.

Aziraphale stared at his friends crumpled form, frozen for a moment before reality kicked in. “Wait!” By then it was too late. There was another thunk, this time far far closer and everything went black. The second to last thought he had was that this was a very embarrassing reason to get discorporated. The last was of Crowley.

Aziraphale’s head ached. Which was fair, violent discorporations were known to leave their brief marks. 

But he wasn’t in heaven. It was far too… damp.

Opening his eyes revealed why, though his vision was concerningly blurry. He wasn’t in heaven he was in his bed at the monastery. Which meant that he hadn’t been discorporated. A relief to say the least. It would save him a mountain of paperwork.

It also meant Crowley likely hadn’t been discorporated either. Aziraphale felt a brief burst of relief. He’d hate to be the reason for a messy discorporation.

But a far grimmer thought took hold of him a moment later. Crowley may not have discorporated but he was a demon in the hands of holy men.

Fear gripped him as he swung himself out of bed only to nearly black out again. His head was pounding, each beat of his heart pulsed some new combination of red or black across his vision.

He _did not_ have time for this.

Gritting his teeth he inspected the point of impact with a hand. The monks had been kind enough to bandage it which meant only good things for his prognosis. Small injuries were far simpler to miracle away than grievous ones, after all.

With a command his spinning vision righted and his headache evaporated. Right headed again he inspected himself. There was a new crucifix around his neck, which he promptly removed. Beneath his bed was a hastily drawn sigil to ward off evil.

Aziraphale tried not to think the worst as he unwrapped the bandages around his skull and, stopping for the briefest indulgence, miracled up something better for him to wear. The vest was a bit heavy but finally he felt himself again. Wearing itchy robes just wasn’t him.

Finally feeling like himself again, Aziraphale had nothing left to distract him. Only the fearful task of locating Crowley. It wasn’t proper to pray for a demon, but he felt perhaps he should.

The halls of the monastery were bare and damp. Each window showed only a dark, grey sky as rain fell against the glass. It had been hours since they’d been attacked, though how many, Aziraphale couldn’t tell for sure. Too many for Crowley. Far too many.

There were few places they could be hiding Crowley. Aziraphale tried the basements first but found them empty. Totally empty, even of the iron cage and fire pokers that had been rusting in the corner.

He swallowed back his dread. 

The realization inspired some frightful thoughts as he moved onto his next target: the chapel. What if they’d done something grievous to Crowley? Could he even miracle away a demon’s wounds? If he could would that alert Heaven to their tentative Arrangement? If he couldn’t would he have to watch the demon suffer? Or worse, discorporate?

The thought alone left him nauseous.

His stomach all in knots, Aziraphale took a moment to steel himself just on the other of the thick wooden doors of the chapel. He pressed his ear to it and listened, hoping for something good, or even something neutral. Muffled by the door, he heard voices, but who’s he couldn’t make out.

There was nothing else to it, then. He’d storm through the doors and confront whoever lay behind. How, he wasn’t quite sure yet. He hadn’t gotten around to planning that far.

“This will work out. It has to.” He played at convincing himself. “You’re going to storm in there and tell them off and you’ll get Crowley and then you can both leave and everything will be just fine! And then you can eat dinner and have a good laugh about all this!” Trying on a smile, Aziraphale attempted optimism, though he feared he was past it. “And… and if I need to- to get messy well, I’ll just have to get creative.” It wasn’t much of a pep talk but it would have to do.

Normally he struggled a bit with opening the old oak door. Not so today. Without even a touch the door sprung open with such vigor it nearly flew off its hinges.

He looked ahead at the convent of monks who had all turned to stare at him. All was silent. The air was heavy with burnt sage and smoke filled the chambers. The first thing he heard was laughing.

Crowley’s laughing. “Lookit that! I was right! He actually - I told you, idiots! Here he is _._ _Helloooo Aziraphale!”_ There was a singsong lilt to his voice. But Aziraphale couldn’t see him or the old cage that had disappeared from its place in the basement. Crowley had lapsed into giggling. He sounded properly mad, which Aziraphale tried to brush off as stress. “Up here, angel. Eyes up!” 

Following Crowley’s direction, Aziraphale turned his gaze first towards a rope that stretched towards the smokey, vaulted roof then to the cage that had sat abandoned in the basement, to Crowley sitting huddled within. 

His hair was matted with blood where he’d been struck and he was missing his glasses. From beneath the haze Aziraphale could see little else, though his laughter had a worrying, wet wheeze to it.

Abbot Bastiano stepped towards Aziraphale, ignoring Crowley. “Ah, you’re free from his control, Brother! We exorcised you of- um!” Aziraphale’s glare stopped him in his tracks. The convent behind him shifted uncomfortably.

“Get him down from there this instant!” Aziraphale’s shout echoed through the chapel and the smokey air seemed to quiver.

Many of the monks flinched but the Abbot foolishly held out. “Have you lost your mind? Do you know what that thing is?”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Aziraphale said resentfully, taking a few steps forward towards the mantel, where the rope keeping Crowley aloft had been tied up. Beside it, a brazier fully lit with the crucifix ended fire pokers sticking from it. The monks shuffled in a nervous pack. “Now, this will be the last time I ask nicely.” When the monks did nothing more he crossed his hands and frowned. “I will count to three. And then, I’ll get on with things.” 

The Abbot straightened up, looking severely at him. He no longer resembled Gabriel or any of Aziraphale’s superiors for that matter. Or perhaps that resemblance had faded simply because Aziraphale no longer held any fear for the man. “Leave now.” He growled. “You are not welcome in this house of God.”

“I most certainly am.” Aziraphale countered. “Three.” And he took another step forward. His shoes clicked against the smooth stone. 

Bastiano visibly swallowed and wavered. But he did not break and instead clutched at the crucifix around his neck. “I am commanded by God’s will to rid demons from this earth. Who are you to interfere with that?”

The smell of sage gave way to something far older. Something almost like ozone, that carried an energy you could practically taste. A sense that overpowered all others and left the world around them stripped bare of Earthly Familiarities. “I understand that but, really I do, but I cannot allow this to go on. It’s my fault he’s here at all. Therefore it’s my responsibility to free him.” Aziraphale stood beneath Crowley’s cage now, he peered up at it and met the demon’s golden, glowing eyes. “Two.”

One of the monks, Brother Marin, leapt for the rope and held tight to it. He stared with quivering fear at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale turned to him and smiled for the help. “If you would, Brother. It would make all of our lives a little easier.”

Abbott Bastiano spoke over him, though the man’s voice shook. “Brother, don’t think of it! Free that demon and you’ll be cast forever out of God’s light. Do you want that?”

The monk cowered, caught between the two. “I- but. He. You can’t feel that? What he’s doing. That’s not Godly, Abbott.”

Aziraphale smiled ironically. “Well… Brother, simply release my friend for me and I’ll let all of you get on with your day. Really. That’s a promise.” He tried to sound encouraging all while the electric force hung around him, tucked just out of sight behind an inscrutable veil.

Marin looked him over. The fear in his eyes screamed. “You promise…”

“Oh, yes. And I keep those.”

“Brother,” the Abbott growled. “Think of your immortal soul.”

Under the argument, Brother Marin crumbled. There was regret in his eyes as he let go of the rope and stepped away. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale just sighed. Back to plan B, then. “I know. One.” Before he could take another step forward he noticed small drops of dark blood splatter against the floor. He couldn’t bear to look up but mollified himself with the knowledge that things were soon to be resolved. Then he could deal with what they’d done to Crowley.

None of the monks moved. They were as if frozen in place, stuck between fear of Aziraphale and fear of God’s wrath. 

“Okay.” Aziraphale didn’t feel nearly as bad for what he was about to do as he knew he should’ve. “Dear, if you would look away.” He didn’t wait for a response, Crowley was a smart entity, he’d know when to follow Aziraphale’s orders. “You all are going to wake up believing you’ve had a very strange dream, that’s all.”

The fabric of the world bent to Aziraphale’s will and just for a moment, perhaps nothing more than the briefest second, a sliver of his unfiltered holy light shone across the chapel and everyone within.

Aziraphale knew his true face. But that was not what manifested in the monastery. The Earthly Realm had far too rigid a set of rules to allow his ephemeral body its shape. Instead he manifested in a burst of heat, of light, and harsh wind. In that instant all the flames lighting the chapel were blown out as a wave of hot wind roared through the space. The gale’s fury threw open every window with a unanimous, violent _snap_. And those that couldn’t open creaked and groaned under the strain. Not a wisp of it touched Crowley. Despite the loss of the flames the light in the chapel doubled and then tripled as Aziraphale stretched his will, it reached a point near blinding and he held it back, unwilling to do any true damage to the men.

Distantly, he felt the rain outside come to an abrupt stop as the atmosphere shifted.

There may have been feathers, rings made of holy fire, or a thousand eyes. Perhaps. But what actually manifested in the dull damp space held no shape in this world and the appearance it took remained up to each monk’s range of imagination. Whatever they saw, whether it be something resembling himself, or simply a ring of spinning fire, light, and a holy presence, or nothing at all, it rolled over the monks and they faltered one by one.

In an instant the monks crumbled and fell to the ground, unconscious. 

Aziraphale collected himself and all went quiet as the roaring wind dropped and died out. Without the flames or holy light to illuminate the space it fell into grey darkness. Aziraphale remedied that a moment later with a font of light that poured from the ceiling. 

It lit upon Crowley, up in his cage. “Buy me dinner first, angel.” He croaked with a lopsided grin. 

With Crowley finally illuminated, Aziraphale ignored the comment and took in the extent of the damage that had been inflicted upon his friend. On top of the blood slicking his hair his skin was red and puffy, his clothes seemed ripped in places and singed in more. 

Aziraphale cast an uneasy gaze towards the fire pokers.

“What are you waiting for?” Crowley complained. “Get me down.”

“In a jiffy! Let me just, um.” Now that he was inspecting the rope that attached to Crowley’s cage it seemed awfully flimsy. He could already see it fraying. Clearly it was not meant to hold something so heavy as the old iron cage, let alone one with Crowley in it. He took the rope and untied it from the stone dais. Crowley’s cage began to sway. “It’ll be fine.” He reassured weakly.

The rope went taut as he began to inch Crowley down. Tension popped strands free of their whole, but Aziraphale kept at his task. Ever so slowly Crowley crept towards the safety of the floor. The weight of the cage left Aziraphale straining to keep his footing. Each time he slipped the rope tore at his hands and sent the cage plummeting down before he could catch and right it again.

Crowley yelped each time it happened. Could Aziraphale have spared the air to apologize he would have. As was, he settled for deeply apologetic looks.

Then, halfway to the floor, the rope tore. With a grand rip the half of the rope wrapped around the beam supporting Crowley came free of the half in Aziraphale’s hand. For a terrifying moment Crowley began to plummet.

Aziraphale couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. It was that will he imposed upon the fraying rope.

Despite the clear, observable fact that the rope had, with all but a few meager strands, come undone it remained as strong as ever and Crowley’s fall stopped as quickly as it had begun.

“Ah.” Crowley finally managed after the swinging subsided. His voice wavered dangerously on the edge of breaking. “Don’t let me fall.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Aziraphale said softly.

When Crowley finally reached the ground he did not spring to his feet and out of the cage as Aziraphale had hoped. Instead he hissed and quivered but stayed firmly bent over himself on the floor of the cage.

“My dear?” Aziraphale approached, though he noticed one problem right away. The glyphs that glowed dimly on the door of the cage. They had to be what was suppressing Crowley’s abilities.

But they were symbols to ward off evil, which Aziraphale was not. Otherwise the cage wasn’t even locked and it swung open easily.

Crowley still didn’t rise, instead he peered up at Aziraphale with a grimace. His long fingers were curled tightly around his thighs. He made to rise but his legs just shook and failed him.

The sight made Aziraphale ache.

“I can’t-” He sighed and ducked his head, unable to make the admission. “This floor bloody stings and they _beat_ my legs. So. So, could you…” Crowley tried to rise again, but under his weight his arms shook and failed him and he collapsed once more.

Aziraphale understood. He entered the cage and hooked an arm under Crowley’s. Under other circumstances he may have lingered on the way Crowley’s hair tickled his nose, or the warmth of the demon’s body against his. But Crowley wobbled unsteadily and Aziraphale banished the thoughts, focusing solely on his task. He used his dominant hand to steady them as they rose, placing it carefully on Crowley’s ribs, so close to the demon’s heart he could feel it beating. Crowley hissed into his ear. “I’m sorry! I don’t mean-”

“Just _move_ , angel.”

Carrying Crowley’s weight Aziraphale hobbled the both of them around the unconscious bodies of the holy men. He may have stepped on a few fingers.

The fresh air, while welcome, didn’t offer immediate respite. Crowley’s feet drug behind them as they struggled through the gardens and Aziraphale could hear each time he caught a bump by each pained, hitched breath. 

When they finally passed beyond the border of the garden Crowley sighed with relief and entirety collapsed his weight against Aziraphale, relying entirely on the angel.

Suddenly tasked with maneuvering Crowley’s limp, rather dense body, Aziraphale struggled to lay him to sit beneath one of the damp almond trees. He slid roughly to the ground with a “Nnh” and leaned back. There was an unsettling rattle to each breath.

Aziraphale sat beside him, taking stock of Crowley in the grey light. Sometimes during their trek Crowley had gone from red to an unsettling, sickly pale hue. More blood seemed to have seeped from the gash in his head. Though Aziraphale was hesitant to look he could see, between torn and burned cloth, ugly red burns pressed into Crowley’s sides. 

Their shape sent a flash of white hot fury through Aziraphale. The nerve, the audacity to claim this attack was holy. Crowley had done nothing to deserve it.

Except that he was a demon. The sin was woven into his very being. A permanent imprint. The company line grated against his sensibilities. Heavenly or not it simply wasn’t _right_.

Crowley brushed his hair from his face to look at Aziraphale with a golden eye. “It’s fine. Yeah. Gimme a few minutes I’ll clean myself up.” He said it so casually, as if this were not some great injustice that had been committed upon him.

“This is ridiculous!” Aziraphale blurted out, for the moment not caring who or what may be listening. “You shouldn’t have to. You did nothing wrong. What was your sin? Visiting me? That’s not a crime worth punishing with such a severe hand. Just because you’re a demon doesn’t mean-” He blinked, suddenly aware of his blasphemy and the fact that he was shaking with rage. Steadying himself with a breath, he continued in a quieter tone. “Doesn’t mean you’re… you know. _Evil.”_

Crowley watched him with a fond smile. “Well, personally I think my greatest sin was the Original one. It’s definitely in the top five, at least.” His smile only grew when Aziraphale frowned at him. “And I am evil.”

“But not _evil_ evil.”

“Oh! I’m insulted. I’m absolutely _evil_ evil. It’s in the job title” Crowley was grinning now. He had to be pulling Aziraphale’s chain, he knew better than anyone just how evil he was. And it wasn’t all that much. “A demon, angel, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

“How could I?” Aziraphale huffed and turned away. Crowley simply wasn’t taking this seriously enough.

“... Angel.” After a strained silence Crowley’s hand brushed Aziraphale’s, pausing for a moment as if he considered taking it. In that brief second Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice how soft the demon’s hand was against his own. But then he moved on, pulling away and dragging his thumb across Aziraphale’s palm.

Their eyes met. Not for long, though, as something ached in Crowley’s gaze and the moment became too much for Aziraphale, who was the first to turn away, grappling with the pit that had opened in his stomach.

He cleared his throat and, for some reason, felt the urge to wipe at his eyes. His ears burned. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Uh. Nah. I mean, what’re you sorry about?”

“Getting you into this.” Which was half the truth, the half he could verbalize. He knew it wasn’t enough. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. And my- my _sweets.”_ Aziraphale rubbed his hands together anxiously, feeling hideously wretched.

Crowley waved a hand, both a dismissal and an act of healing, as Aziraphale watched his legs straighten and bruises vanish. “Don’t worry about it.” His miracle, though, didn’t clean all of the blood from his hair. It appeared he didn’t have the energy. Crowley seemed particularly annoyed about this as he wrinkled his nose and picked at the matted mess that was left behind. “Ugh. Gross.”

A shot of inspiration propelled Aziraphale to a stand. “I can help!”

Crowley frowned. “You shouldn’t. I don’t think either of our bosses would approve of you miracling a me back to health. Anyways, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, no. No miracles. Just simple human ingenuity.” And when Crowley frowned deeper he explained. “The monastery, they’ve got- oh, what do they call them? Salves? It’s very advanced for humans. And bandages and the like. Anything you need, tell me and I’ll go get it.”

Looking bemused, Crowley stared at him with raised eyebrows.

“I’m serious!”

“Okay! Okay.” Crowley relented. “I don’t need any _salves_ or whatever. Just. Just get some water and help me clean this up.” As Aziraphale hurried back towards the monastery he called out “Oi! And I want to try those bloody biscuits!”

A request that left Aziraphale slightly delighted.

He returned to Crowley carrying a ceramic bowl full of water and fine smelling herbs, a clean washcloth, a small basket of the macarons, and a blanket he’d pulled off Abbot Bastiano’s bed. Now that he was back in front of the demon he felt slightly embarrassed about the latter. “I. Um.” He started nervously when Crowley looked up at him expectantly. “I thought we could, you know. It’d be like a picnic. Or… something.”

“Yeah. Or something.” Crowley’s voice was teasing, but soft to its core. He stood unsteadily as Aziraphale laid out the quilt and snapped his fingers to smooth it when Aziraphale struggled to. He practically collapsed back on top of it and whistled appreciatively. “Ooh. Very good. Much less muddy.”

Aziraphale sat on his left and carefully dipped the washcloth in the bowl and rinsed it out. He hesitated before touching the mess of blood and hair on Crowley’s head, afraid to cross the distance.

Crowley himself turned his attention to the basket Aziraphale had set in front of him and pulled a thin, delicate pastry from it. “Neat.” He said shortly before popping the macaron in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Okay…”

Pushing past his hesitation, Aziraphale began the slow process of cleaning the blood from Crowley’s hair. 

“You don’t have to. I’ll do it.” But Crowley’s protests carried no actual weight and he made no effort to take the cloth from Aziraphale. Instead he leaned into Aziraphale’s hand and went quiet as Aziraphale worked the putty like dried blood from Crowley’s hair.

More than once Aziraphale noticed Crowley watching him. At some point he began to quietly hum.

Crowley’s hair was longer than it had been the last time he’d seen the demon, and Aziraphale liked it that way. There was something soothing about the repetition of stroking his hands through Crowley’s locks until they shone.

A low wind began to blow over the hills as they lounged beneath the safety of the almond trees. It tore at the layer of grey clouds until scraps of the setting sunlight pierced the shroud. 

Though Crowley’s hair had been long since cleaned, Aziraphale finally unwound his fingers from Crowley’s roots and scrubbed away the blood beneath his fingernails. When he felt properly clean he too tackled the basket of macarons.

“Well,” he finally said after dusting for crumbs. “We never got to that restaurant.”

“Eh.” Crowley shrugged. “This is practically the same.”

“Is it?”

Crowley laughed. “No. But the company’s the same, so. Yeah, no big loss.” He looked out over the Venetian hills. “What about your pastries? You never got the recipe out of them, did you?”

“Oh. No. No, I suppose I didn’t.” Aziraphale smiled over at his friend. “But that’s alright.”

Crowley met his gaze. “Oh? But you spent so long after it. You’re just gonna let that go to waste?”

“It’s not a waste. And I’m sure the recipe will get out eventually.” 

When his smile quirked Crowley leaned back and peered at him suspiciously. “You have it, don’t you?”

Aziraphale winked and pulled a small note from his sleeve, scrawled across it were tiny instructions in his own looping handwriting. “Perhaps.”

Practically cackling, Crowley snatched the paper from his hand. “Oh, _angel,”_ he said, delightfully scandalized. “That’s stealing.”

“Oh, no! They would have given it to me eventually. I just… sped up the process a teensy bit.”

Still laughing, Crowley shook his head at him. “Sure.” He handed back the paper and grinned as Aziraphale tucked it back into his sleeve. “Did you still want to go to Venice? I mean, it’s right down there.”

Aziraphale considered the offer and the darkening city. “Hm. I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Just for a day.” He glanced back to the monastery. “Though I suppose I’ll have to start taking up miracles for Head Office again. Can’t put those off for too long or they’ll start asking questions.”

If possible, Crowley’s grin grew wider and gained a wry edge. “Oh, yeah? I bet you could get an assignment near, uh. Oh, I don’t know. The Vatican maybe? There’s always holy stuff going on there, right? And, say you were already heading in that direction… well. Then have I got a proposition for you.”

Aziraphale frowned at the demon but couldn’t exactly say no. After today he certainly owed him more than a few favors. “Yes,” he sighed. “I’ll look into it.”

“Great! That’ll get ol Beelzebub off my back.” Snapping his fingers again, this time to mend the holes in his outfit, Crowley rose. Tinted black glasses appeared in his hand and he slipped them on, effectively turning him into just another human to the untrained eye. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before your friends start waking up and asking sticky questions.”

Aziraphale nearly folded the blanket they’d been sitting on and returned it to the garden and placing it atop a stone bench to assure it wouldn’t get any muddier than it already was. He wasn’t quite feeling generous enough towards the men to actually clean it or put it back where it belonged.

He took the rest of the macarons too. And tried to set his mind at ease with the day. The holy men would be none the wiser, his ultimate purpose here was sitting fulfilled up his sleeve, both he and Crowley had made it out without any blood on their hands. On the surface all seemed well, and certainly Crowley acted that way as he kept an easy, loping stride beside Aziraphale as they made for the road.

No matter how mum Crowley kept about it, though, Aziraphale saw him limping. The sight alone nursed Aziraphale’s resentment for Heaven’s so called righteousness. With Crowley at his side he nursed it, and more than one bottle of wine, well into the wee hours of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> A belated apology to the actual Venetian monks who invented macarons I'm sure none of them were crazy.


End file.
